Page 77 of Dirty Hit
I laugh, because the little masochist really believes that.
“You think I don’t know that greedy hole? Your body’s a text I’ve already memorized, baby. And it’s telling me you’re strung too tight. One good thrust and you’ll tear.” I bend, spit once more, watch it drip, then lick it away. “I’m not wasting you on pain that’ll only hurt tomorrow. I want you aching for me, not limping because I was selfish.”
He makes another wounded noise, half-melted against the counter, so I soften my grip and let my fingers ghost down the seam of his crease, teasing the rim but never breaching. “Tonight, you get my tongue. So you better be fucking grateful.”
I wrap my hand around his cock again. He’s rock-hard, leaking down my palm, but I don’t stroke; I just hold and squeeze at the base until he whines. I lower my mouth to his sweet hole, tongue relentless—broad laps, pointed flicks, slow circles that tease his rim open without pushing past.
Every time he tries to arch, I tighten my fist around his cock; a silent command to behave.
“Filthy thing,” I whisper. “Got your ass in the air for a murderer. You like knowing the same mouth that ordered disposal is the one eating you out?”
He shudders and gives me a frantic nod, forehead thudding against the wood. I slip a finger inside his hole and start pumping his cock slowly, thumb smearing the head each time he leaks. He sobs and fights to stay still. “Dom—gonna—”
“Hold it.” I practically snarl the words into his skin, finger deliberately seeking out his prostate, and he cries out, everymuscle locking. I ease the pressure on his cock, let him hover on the edge, then clamp down again just as he’s about to fall back.
“Let me come, please, Daddy,please—”
I thumb the slit, smear precum down the flushed length, and watch his hole clench. “Turn around.”
He obeys, falling onto his back, and this time I don’t tease. I swallow his cock and set a ruthless pace: hollowing my cheeks, working my tongue on every retreat, taking him deep with each thrust. His hips jerk, but I hold him in place, hands locked around his thighs, forcing him to feel every slow swallow, every slick pull.
I pull off with a wet pop and fist him, twisting my wrist on the upward stroke. “Let go, Little Sin.”
His hands leave the counter, fingers threading into my hair, head falling back and throat working as he spills across my tongue, body trembling with the intensity. I hold him there, swallowing around each pulse, until he sinks against the wood, boneless and wrecked.
When I finally release him, I press a kiss to the tender skin of his inner thigh. He flinches at the faint contact, oversensitive now, but there’s a dazed smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“Still functional?” I ask, wiping the corner of my mouth with my thumb.
He laughs, a thin, shaky sound that goes straight to my chest. “Barely. I’m going to Hell for this.”
I huff out a laugh and pull him up, then grasp his jaw and kiss him, deep and dirty, letting him taste himself on my tongue. He melts into it, all his tension dissolving, hands immediately sliding around my neck.
When I pull away from the kiss, his eyes are heavy, lids drooping, cheeks pink. I press my forehead against his.
“No more begging me to take you,” I remind him. “You come here because you want to. Because you’re mine to spoil.”
He exhales another shaky laugh. “That felt a lot more like ruining than spoiling.”
I smile, brushing my nose against his. “Ruined is my favorite flavor.”
His laugh turns into a breathy hum, content and sated, but still sparking with something hungry beneath. I feel it because it mirrors the burn in my own veins, the ache of my cock, still hard in my jeans and demanding attention.
My kitchen is branded with a new memory now, and a different kind of danger. One that has nothing to do with knives or blood, and everything to do with the trembling, fearless boy licking redemption off my tongue.
Brendon
I’veneverhatedmyselfmore than I do now, staring at my own bathroom floor.
The bathroom is still full of steam, the mirror fogged and the tiles damp under my bare feet. My skin feels too clean, scrubbed on the inside and out. That’s the part that really makes me want to press my head against the wall and die.
This is stupid. I say that every time I pull the little bottle out from under the sink, and go through the ritual exactly the way all those anonymous internet guides said to do it. I tell myself it’s just about hygiene and feeling prepared… just in case.
I’ve been thinking “just in case” for a full month now and not admitting what thecaseis.
Normal people don’t schedule their bodily functions around the possibility that a six-foot-four homicidal quarterback might decide tonight’s the night he wants to put it in them.
Normal people buy groceries, go to class, and watch Netflix; they don’t douche “just in case” every time the guy they’re definitely not dating is coming over to study constitutional law.
